


Winter Prompt Challenge ❄️

by theapartmentcryptid (iceangel000)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Big brother Eskel, Canonical Character Death, Corvo Bianco (The Witcher), Eskel and Lambert's list of things not to talk about, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs (The Witcher), Lambert is the Disaster Uncle, Post-Battle of Kaer Morhen, Pre-relationship Lambert/Keira, Soft Eskel (The Witcher), Soft Lambert (The Witcher), Winter At Kaer Morhen, no beta we die like 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28398060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iceangel000/pseuds/theapartmentcryptid
Summary: A collection of winter-themed drabbles written based on prompts from tumblr. Tags, pairings, and characters will be updated as chapters are added
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Lambert, Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert & Vesemir, Eskel & Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Lambert & Vesemir (The Witcher), Lambert/Keira Metz
Comments: 7
Kudos: 22





	1. Prompt #3: Reading by the fire/cuddling by the fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eskel has plenty of things he doesn't talk to Lambert about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the Winter Prompt Challenge from Tumblr!

The main hall’s hearth crackled merrily and Eskel shifted his socked feet a little closer to the welcome warmth and turned the page in his book. Dinner duty was his that night, and a hearty stew and fresh loaves of bread sat warm and waiting in the kitchen for when the others finished their tasks. Geralt could either finish first or last; he’d been tasked with seeing to the livestock, and knowing his tendency to spoil Roach when he could, he might happily spend extra time in the stables making sure the other horses got the same treatment. Kaer Morhen’s own hostler, that one.

 _Good,_ Eskel mused. Scorpion could do with a little extra love if Eskel wasn’t there to give it to him. Not that the Witcher wouldn’t give his trusty stallion and ever faithful Li’l Bleater a bit of extra attention tomorrow to make up for not bedding them down that day.

Vesemir was off settling the last of the supplies his students had hauled up the mountain that year. The eldest Witcher kept a running list of problems around the keep that started anew in the spring and slowly grew ever longer as winter approached. All three of his remaining students would bring back materials to finish projects that they hadn’t been able to finish the winter before, or coin (so that Vesemir could gather materials himself in the warmer months without having to worry about searching out extra contracts - they worried for him just as they worried for each other while on the Path, though it was rarely vocalized). Now that the trio of wayward Wolves had returned to their home upon the mountain, Vesemir was taking a final inventory and deciding what they would be most likely to be able to complete off his list of winter projects.

And Lambert- 

The door to the main hall banged open, bringing with it a rush of cold air and cursing.

Lambert had been on firewood duty. Judging from the shuffling Eskel could hear, it sounded like Lambert was hauling several trees worth of wood into the entryway from where he’d piled it outside the door. Vesemir had muttered about Lambert’s habits when it came to chopping and hauling firewood, but the youngest Wolf maintained that he stacked everything at the door and brought it in when he was done so he only got cold ONCE. The others knew how much Lambert hated the cold and left him to it; Lambert bitched far less when left to his own devices, under-the-breath grumbling that Eskel could still hear coming from the doorway notwithstanding.

Eskel turned another page in his book and pointedly did not look in the direction of the door as it thumped shut and the sound of Lambert stamping feeling back into his toes moved closer. It was best, he had learned, to let Lambert get his habitual grumping over with without notice being brought to it. Through experience, Eskel knew that drawing attention to Lambert’s habit of muttering to himself would only make him puff up like an angry cat.

Better to just not talk about it. Eskel had a running mental list of Things He Didn’t Discuss With Lambert after all the years they had known one another.

Apparently finished trying to bludgeon circulation back into his extremities, Lambert dropped himself unceremoniously to the floor at Eskel’s feet and leaned back until his shoulders could leech heat from the elder Witcher’s knees.

This was the quietest of winter rituals, where Eskel would allow Lambert to curl close when he was cold. No words were ever exchanged, and Lambert be the one to initiate, lest he hear some silent judgement and stop reaching out entirely. It only ever happened when the others were otherwise occupied and unlikely to catch the moment of comfort.

Lambert’s back pressed further into his brother’s legs, soaking in the heat that was Eskel’s own Witcher-hot temperature brought even toastier by his time spent in front of the fire - the fire which Lambert shoved his still booted feet dangerously close to. His hands were still curled into fists and shoved up into his armpits, but Eskel knew that once those frosty fingers had thawed a bit, they would likely reach behind Lambert’s back to curl loosely around Eskel’s ankles. Whether this had to do with stealing as much heat as quickly as possible or Lambert’s own brand of affection was still up in the air.

For a while the two sat in silence, listening to the crackle of the fire and the occasional turn of pages in Eskel’s book, and eventually the younger Wolf slowly stopped feeling like a block of living ice pressed against his brother’s legs.

A distant noise within the keep signaled that Vesemir was likely finished taking inventory and coming to check on the others’ progress. Lambert rolled silently to his feet and walked off, likely to bathe before eating. Eskel waited for him to be out of the main hall before closing his book, setting it aside, and getting up to check one last time on dinner. It wouldn’t do to have Vesemir catch him lazing about after all, assigned tasks finished or not. Despite not being students anymore, the master of the keep would be more than happy to find his boys something useful to occupy their time. Eskel chuckled and grabbed bowls for the stew, looking forward to what the rest of winter would bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These prompts may be posted a little out of order, but I'll adjust the chapters as I go! This is my first time writing fic in a /while/ so I hope it's decent!


	2. Prompt #21: Icicle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little Ciri and Lambert do some laundry and talk about scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second prompt I completed off the list, so it's safe to say that they were done entirely out of order.   
> Have a foulmouthed, disaster lad and his adopted niece.

During the winter, daily chores at Kaer Morhen were divided amongst the Wolves, assigned by Vesemir, and more often than not designed to accomplish the maximum amount of work while still leeching the excess energy off potential troublemakers. On one particularly fine, frosty morning, Lambert and a young Cirilla had been given laundry duty. Ciri may have been less than enthusiastic about cleaning a bunch of stinky, dirt-covered clothing, but at least it was a chore that could be done in blessed heat - the hot springs beneath Kaer Morhen provided plenty of warm water for washing.

Ciri rolled the laundry tub into place as Lambert set down the bags of washing. Jackets and boots were set aside so as not to get wet, trousers were rolled up to the knee, and Lambert chucked his own shirt into the pile to be washed. Even having gotten used to being surrounded by four scarred men, the tapestry of marks that wove across their skin still took the girl by surprise on occasion. She had started to learn what it was to be a Witcher, the hard work and sacrifice that came with their duties, and even though she still had trouble with the Pendulum, she wondered what it would be like to be fully grown and on the Path. Would she wind up as scarred as the men she lived with? Geralt, Lambert, and Eskel all had facial scarring, though Vesemir had somehow lived as long as he had without gaining any. Would she, too, catch claws or blade at the skin of her face? So far she only had slowly callusing hands and scrapes across her knobbly knees to show her efforts. Huffing slightly, Ciri frowned down at the current set of scabs at the tops of her shins, then glanced over at Lambert and the marks on his skin. 

Frown firmly in place, Ciri began to sort the laundry as Lambert plopped down at the side of the nearest pool, using the bucket Ciri had brought over to fill the tub. Silence hung in the humid air as Lambert deemed there to be enough water for their purposes, then he grabbed a shirt from the pile that would need extra scrubbing and started treating troublesome spots.

“Keep frowning like that and you’ll be stuck looking like old Vesemir for the rest of your life.” Ciri jolted out of her thoughts as Lambert broke the silence. “Wanna tell me what the face is about?”

After a moment of hesitation, Ciri gestured from the scrapes on her knees to the scars on Lambert’s own. “Just thinking about scars.”

Lambert appeared to consider that statement for a moment, rolling it around and determining how loaded it was, before apparently coming to a decision. With a roll of his shoulders and a gesture at the marks crisscrossing his person, the Witcher replied, “Yanno, sometimes your skin picks weird shit to hang onto, Princess, Witcher healing or not. Not all of them have impressive stories attached, no matter what you might hear Geralt’s bard say.” 

Lambert pointed at a mark surrounded by a spattering of smaller marks on his knee, “This one’s just from where a rock got stuck in the skin when a horse threw me when I was learning to ride. Landed rough, picked the gravel out of my knees, and started wondering if Witchers really needed horses.”

There was a pause as Ciri mulled over the information she’d been given.

“What’s that one from?” Ciri gestured to a small, oddly-shaped scar on Lambert’s left shoulder. It looked as though something had broken the skin and skipped a few times, leaving smaller echoes of the initial mark.

“Road sign. Ran into it full tilt. Hit my shoulder so hard it spun me damn near all the way ‘round. New horse was skittish, got spooked, and started running off with all my shit in the saddlebags. Was so focused on catching up that I didn’t see the sign.”

Ciri gawped. Lambert continued scrubbing the shirt clean. She was beginning to see why he generally preferred to walk the Path without a horse; they clearly didn’t mix well.

“That one?” A faded set of three, thin, parallel scars on Lambert’s left forearm, just below the elbow.

“Scared cat. Fell, latched onto my arm. Always clean cat scratches, kid, their claws have nasty shit on ‘em.”

“I thought cats didn’t like Witchers.”

“They don’t.” 

Maybe animals just didn’t like _Lambert_.

“Are those also animal scratches?” Lambert’s right forearm also had faded, thin scratches, but they were oddly placed across the expanse of skin and not parallel at all.

“Nah, got my arm stuck in a bramble back when I was training. Found some berries, stuck my arm into the bush to nab the ones I could see, got all fuckin’ bloodied up pulling my arm back out.”

“The one on your thumb?” Lambert had a curved line in the well of his palm where his thumb connected to the rest of his hand.

“Fish hook,” he shot back with a grimace.

“Is that why you use bombs?” 

Lambert side eyed the girl, “Who told you about that?”

Her saccharinely sweetly toned response of “Eskel” was received with a snort.

“What about that one?” This time the mark indicated was on the top of Lambert’s submerged foot, and the size and shape of a single Oren. The Witcher frowned down at the mark as though it were to blame for all his problems.

“Fucking icicle went through my boot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it cuts off, but I could have run with this particular idea for way too long.  
> Fun fact, some of Lambert's scars here are based on some of mine.


	3. +5. Seeing your breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grief settles on your shoulders like frost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little disjointed and a little angsty, and definitely short.  
> Edit 1/23/21: I made a change in the second paragraph because /somehow/ I forgot Coën!

Death felt cold to Lambert. Nearly bleeding out after a contract gone wrong always left him freezing at the tips of his fingers and toes until he’d recovered the blood he’d lost. Watching others die, though, that felt like a shard of ice in his chest.

Voltehre, disappearing under Speartip’s crushing blow. Geralt, gone at the hands of a pitchfork-wielding mob of hate-filled peasants (even if he’d eventually come back to them in typical Geralt fashion). Too-noble Coën, unable to stand by and watch in neutrality as the North was besieged yet again by Nilfgaard, and struck down at Brenna for his trouble. Leo, not yet fully trained but standing at their backs and paying for it with his life. _Aiden_. And spark-bright Ciri, after so long and so much, blessedly alive.

Alive and in trouble. She needed them.

Lambert didn’t honor any gods, but as he assembled bomb after bomb, he repeated one thought over and over, as though the repetition and sheer will behind the sentiment would be enough to bend reality to that whim: _We will protect her. My brothers will live, and we will protect her_.

Then the riders came, turning everyone’s breath to frost in the air, freezing them like so many statues. Ciri _screamed_ , and the world seemed to shatter. In the aftermath, Lambert felt as though something did.

Staring into the flames of Vesemir’s pyre, he feels a ghost of himself laying at the old man’s side. _My brothers will live, and we will protect her…_ _This wasn’t what he meant._ Ciri was alive (safe, for now), and Vesemir was dead. Twice that day, Lambert had been close to joining him. Without Letho, without Keira, without Geralt, Lambert would be amongst the flames himself.

The riders were gone, but Lambert still felt frozen at his core.

Cold, he was so cold.

“Lambert?”

Startled out of his reverie, he saw that the flames he’d been staring into had become embers, that a layer of frost had started to cover the world. Including him, as he stood in unseeing vigil. Keira stood a little ways up the hill, wrapped in a shawl to ward off the chill of night high in the mountains. Stepping lightly towards him, she held out a waterskin and a thickly-woven blanket.

“I won’t ask you to leave, but I won’t have you acting like a living statue any longer. Drink, and at least think about wrapping up. You’ve verglas starting to form on your hair.” Stubborn, bossy sorceress. He appreciated it, though. That’s the second time she’s helped him out. Just wrapping the blanket around his shoulders was a relief - fuck, but he hates the cold. The ache in his throat was surely just dehydration, nothing more. Although, even as he took a long pull from the waterskin, the feeling refused to relent. Might call for a little vodka later, then. Keira stood by his side, arms wrapped around herself and quietly staring off into the distance. Neither had the inclination to break the fragile silence that had once more settled in the air, but Lambert would admit in the privacy of his own thoughts that he was almost glad he wasn’t alone anymore, even if he hadn’t noticed it before. He couldn’t seem to get his feet to want to move from their post, and there was a feeling clawing at the inside of his ribs that he hadn’t really registered in the all-encompassing cold - cold that waned ever so slightly in the company of another.

He didn’t really know Keira, but he owed her. He’d agreed to help her after leaving Kaer Morhen in order to settle that debt (and maybe also because there was still a part of him that felt awestruck and coltish after the display of magic that had certainly saved his life). For the moment, though, he was honestly just glad for her company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the third prompt completed out of the set, but was intended as one of the possible alternatives in the original prompt list. I'll try to keep each of these at least 500 words - I was trying for closer to 1000, but this prompt refused to cooperate and I'd rather have it be short than feel forced.


	4. Prompt #1: Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corvo Bianco truly wasn't quite like anywhere else, and the inhabitants wouldn't have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first prompt on the list, but the 4th one I wrote. I love Corvo Bianco, and Geralt deserves to be able to retire and have some fun.

Barnabas-Basil was a majordomo of some distinction, having come from a family of majordomos and serving individuals such as Admiral Rompally. He had never, however, served an individual or an estate quite like Wolf Witcher Geralt of Rivia and Corvo Bianco. Oh, Corvo Bianco itself was an estate that Barnabas-Basil was quite familiar with the history of, but what his current employer had brought to the table was an added element of uniqueness entirely unlike any of the previous owners. The house and grounds had been restored to their former glory, and then further renovated to cater to the tastes of the new Master of the estate - an armor repair table and grindstone here, a stable for his horse there. A small statuette of Reginald d’Aubry, gifted to the estate by a grateful Curator of Art and Collectibles, stood on a pedestal near the entrance to the wine cellar. In Mistress Nina’s old gardens grew herbs and flowers useful for their alchemical properties. An alchemy lab constructed by a previous occupant of the estate was uncovered in the cellar and promptly restored to full usefulness. Inside the main house, Barnabas-Basil had politely insisted upon improving the quality of the guest room. After a bed was provided for the master bedroom, weapon racks and armor stands were commissioned and quickly filled, and Corvo Bianco shone in all her glory. 

Mastercrafted swords hung on the walls in steel and silver, and suits of armor studiously crafted in the styles of various Witcher schools lined the main hall. Among the decorations hung on the walls were items no less singular than anything else decorating the interior of the main house. On the back wall of the main hall hung two shields vastly different in appearance: an ancient elven shield with an apparently magical and murderous history (which also had a matched counterpart amongst the decorative steel swords), and a knight’s shield bearing the standard of Sir Geralt of Rivia (borne only once during Toussaint’s own tourney, depicting three blood red diamonds on a field of white below a bold blue bridge backed in blackness). _Starry Night Over the Pontar_ , a truly beauteous van Rogh, overlooked the breakfast nook where Barnabas-Basil normally briefed Geralt about the goings-on of the estate. In the upstairs guest room was a painting of a young married couple, their images lovingly depicted and yet somehow bittersweet in tone. In the hallway leading to the kitchen was a gift from Count Beledal - captured via his parestisomach, depicting the image of the Master of the house fending off a giant centipede - simply titled _The White Wolf_. 

It was in that kitchen that another of Corvo Bianco’s own formerly cursed cook spent most of her days. Marlene de Trastamara may have been a Baron’s daughter cursed to live most of her life as a wight, but the cuisine crafted by her hand was worthy of the table of Her Enlightened Ladyship Anna Henrietta herself. She was also far from the only extraordinary individual drawn to the estate by the Witcher. Sorceresses, other Witchers (and a young Witcheress), a bard of some renown _who certainly wasn’t Dandelion_ , a delightfully polite barber-surgeon, and a number of other colorful characters passed through the doors of Corvo Bianco’s main house. Some stayed for seasons, some only stayed for dinner. All dropped by entirely unannounced. The only time Barnabas-Basil knew to prepare for guests was in the winter, whereupon a small crowd would descend upon the estate. While these gatherings were not the lavish soirees the grounds had known under the ownership of Master Bolius, they had a brightness and energy and something vaguely Northern-but-not that brought smiles to the faces of all who lived and worked at Corvo Bianco. Perhaps it was the quiet giddiness of Geralt himself that spread throughout the estate in the weeks leading up to their first winter arrivals, for the Witcher could often be found traipsing home with gifts for his soon-to-be-guests (his family, the majordomo would internally amend).

The morning after the first snow, the residents of Corvo Bianco would exit their homes to see garlands and evergreen wreaths hung about the grounds, candles would decorate the low walls, and the braziers would be lit so that passers-by could stop to warm their fingers for a moment. Marlene’s seemingly unending cooking and baking could be smelled clear out into the vineyard, delicious scents carried on chill breezes. Two days after the first snowfall, a meal akin to a small feast would be provided for all the workers with sentiments of appreciation from their Witcher. Within three days of the overnight decoration, the first guests would make their way up the hill, and Geralt himself would greet them at the door. 

Before things could get too busy, Geralt would always find a moment to pull Barnabas-Basil aside and pass him a gift. Something small, but always something the majordomo would enjoy. A bottle of wine from a surprisingly skilled Northern vintner, a new card for his Gwent deck, a handsome new quill. Marlene had mentioned similar treatment in passing conversation. It was, apparently, a little something extra bestowed upon the two people who worked closest with the Master of the estate. Which begged the question: what gift could be given in return?

What gift could possibly suit a man such as Geralt of Rivia. Not for the Witcher, no; there were plenty of things useful for his trade that could possibly be acquired. No, it must be something not for the tradesman, but for the man himself. For the man who cared enough to undo a curse on a woman, then offer her a place to heal, then to give her work she loved and a home. The man who kept physical reminders of his exploits, but very rarely would regale anyone about them. The man who doted on his horse even when she hadn’t been put to work. The man who made sure all his workers were paid fairly and treated well. The man who had asked to be allowed to call him ‘B.B.’ instead of simply doing so. The man who snuck about his own home in the middle of the night, while it was snowing, putting up decorations so that they would appear as if by magic in the morning. What would such a man enjoy?

The easy answer would be new Gwent cards, but that would be a trap. Barnabas-Basil had played many a game with Geralt, and knew just how extensive his collection was. 

Good food was always something Geralt seemed to savor, but that would be Marlene’s area of expertise, and Barnabas-Basil was loath to encroach upon it.

Perhaps what he needed was to act more in line with the good-natured mischief of the man in question (for the Witcher was in possession of a dry sense of humor, would often engage in bouts of wordplay whenever there was a certain raven-haired sorceress nearby, and apparently wasn’t above playing games on his brothers-in-arms - no emotion, indeed). 

It was with that sentiment in mind that Barnabas-Basil set about inquiring where he would be able to obtain (or at the very least borrow) a parestisomach like Count Beledal had used. 

xXx

Geralt knew he was a bit odd to the people who worked around the vineyard: a Nordling and a Witcher, somehow in the good graces of the Dutchess enough to be gifted a parcel of land with incredible potential in her domain. Whispered conversations through the years, wishes of a place to settle down and breathe, were suddenly made reality. He had a roof without leaks, walls without cracks, a comfortable bed, and a suitable stable for Roach to enjoy her hard-earned retirement, too. With Kaer Morhen crumbling and filled with plenty of metaphorical ghosts, Geralt made sure to extend an invitation to his fellow Wolf Witchers that they would be welcome to winter with him. From there, other invitations slowly made their way into passing conversation - Yen, Ciri, Triss, Regis, Shani, Zoltan (and Dandelion, though he’d have to keep his head down if he wanted to avoid reminding everyone that he was technically banished). Even Roche and Ves had been given the offer, even if they’d yet to take him up on it. He’d had a long life with the only constant space available to retreat to being the old Keep, but now that he had a space that was technically his own, he wanted to make sure that the people in his life knew that he’d always have space for them. His way of giving back, he supposed.

When the weather turned cold and the breezes began to bite, Geralt had everything ready. He would smell the first snowfall of the season coming and finish the last few decorations in secret, then waited until the estate was asleep before creeping about to make sure they would be in place to get dusted with enough flakes to make them look truly enchanting in the morning light. Toussaint was a land of fairytale imagery, and the Witcher leaned into that proclivity at times. He brought little bits of various winter traditions from across the North to his little patch of the South. The grounds were dressed up first, then the workers would be invited to share a meal in the main house (Marlene and B.B. were marvels for working out the logistics of that particular yearly event), and then old friends would begin dropping by. Eskel would ride out the worst of winter before heading off on the Path, but Lambert would take contracts nearby until temperatures had risen enough for him to bother heading northward. Anywhere Lambert went, there was usually a chance of Keira popping up. Ciri could drop in on him anytime throughout the year - something about keeping Geralt on his toes - but would reliably stop by in the winter, too. They were his most reliable visitors, walking off the Path and into the warmth of Corvo Bianco’s main house within days of the first snow.

Sitting in his home, surrounded by people he cared about (who cared about him, in turn), Geralt felt a bone-deep satisfaction. He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, and took a moment to just _enjoy_. Yennefer shifted in her chair to his left, and suddenly her lips were on his cheek, accompanied by a quick pop and flash of light from the other side of the room. Startled back to full awareness, Geralt looked first at Yen, then the assorted grins of his tablemates, and finally above his head to where his Child Surprise was holding a sprig of mistletoe aloft. 

“A perfect image, I’d wager,” B.B. intoned from near the front door. He was wearing one of those headpieces like Count Beledal had used to capture scenes when he’d contracted Geralt as a glorified wildlife guide. “Though it will take several days to see the final result.”

“Now you’ll _have_ to replace that horrid painting of me that I know you still have hanging over your desk. After all, this one’ll have all of us in it.” Ciri’s sly expression was entirely unrepentant.

And wouldn’t you know it, when Geralt was presented with the print captured that night around the dinner table, he had to admit B.B. was right. It was pretty damn perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to decide if I should leave the chapters in the order of when they were written, or put them in the order of the corresponding prompt number. Let me know what you think in the comments!


End file.
